oh i didn't write something to change the boundaries,
i wanted to capture the digital narrative,
or how the hope of destroying all forms of theology
with our a.i. gravitas, we started to
apply the digital anaesthetic -
and cradle the numbing effects of:
                 us, in experiment,
or: us, in a medium of synthetic material...
             either way pushing us apart friom actually
inhabiting organic matter...
           the many of us these these are merely pawn
in the game...
                  we're pawns in a construction site
of all thing theretical... meaning it's truly 2D by comparison
to the 3D structures we see...
       the element that will truly give a.i. it's ego?
wait wait... why with latin dead and me not speak it
but i have this theoretical baggage of ego?
            ego is only short of en egg should i decide to
write it... arbeit macht frei must come from
counter-conceptualisation of the remains of the roman
empire with self- (hyphen included), to remind people
that it's all about work, and how we will either loose
or free ourselves from the re in the setting sun to echo aeons...
that might be the case...
            but find me a modern day writer who has
to use this medium of people talking over one another...
find me a writer who''s lodged in the internet like
a cherry atop a cake...
          who can't be gagging for a log cabin in some obscure
place, who has to be in the thick of it...
       i'm not writing to change the world,
i'm writing to describe the status quo...
            qua norm, or should i say "norm"...
from status quo comes the question: qua status?
     when i write i think about throwing a pebble into
a lake, compared to throwing a pebble into a river...
compared to throwing a pebble into a sea...
to be honest? throwing a pebble into a sea is
the most involving...
                  and there is poetic subconscious in this,
which i will unearth: the pebble is supposed to mean this:
the three forms of water are supposed to represent
another this:
                                 the pebble is supposed to represent
a soul, a concentration of my my, my sigma (total),
and the three tiers of water are supposed to represent this...
that said, i watched
    an internet video... by angry mgtow...
an answer to white women are rejecting beta males now /
blonde in the belly of the beast...
   first thing: why are men using the internet
deemed more "creepy" than women?
    we've already embarked on this a.i. project for the sole
reason as to overcome theological argument and
religion... we are living in a Frankenstein experiment,
but the "problem" is that we're only working on
the software package of the beast...
         the hardware can wait... we're not going to replace
our fondness for busdrivers and cleaners any time soon...
  we love our manual labourers...
                  american woman! stay away from me!
american woman! mama let me be!
   (it's daily, over and over in my head, that line and
many more kindred sing-alongs)
   we've already been drafted into creating the software
of the a.i. beast, it doesn't matter that the
hardware is already there but that we've stalled its
potential... the software is harder to be bound to
the logistics a limb might be drafted to exhibit basic
tongue of movement...
          all compliments to women:
they're the irrationality that will give the a.i. the spark!
           meaning autonomy...
  and how could i not even sound like an atypical man?
don't date the opposite ***?
              tease urban living with what life's like in
the middle-zone of outer-urbanity, i.e. the case of
a ******* bungalow? ha ha.
                              but this video got me like i might
catch a herring, and i do love pickled herrings...
raw pickled herrings...  it just got me
when i said: i'd like to move to the Faroe Islands...
no please, spare me the misery...
                         it's hard not to be
sexually antagonistic (sexist) - esp. when you're
not a sheikh with a motorboat and a fluffy moustache
that might brush-up against the ******* like
a vibrating ***** while you taste the pastries of flesh
with a saintly glee...
             every time i performed oral ***
on her i felt i left that hot-spot having slobbered
a tonne of lard... smeared a tonne of ****** cream and
that my face became phosphorescent, or an anglerfish:
which is the first sign before you don't even
bother to care to launch a space mission apollo 13
into the depths containing stars... or ask
      ridley scott...
                          i think he's the one dubbed:
coping mechanism... unlike philip k **** this guy's
a coping mechanism, a rare spectacle:
science fiction obstructs actual science...
                     i'm glad he's around and i pray that
we truly explore the depths of seas before going up
there: where the sun don't shine.
                  but this video got to me...
                i can't relate to it, either with the masculine
theory or the feminine experience...
i don't know: it almost feels like i live in a time
capsule at the best part of the 20th century when
i could still buy compact discs in a music shop
on a high-street... when there was no over-arching
agarophobia and claustrophobia telling us
when it was worthwhile to leave the house...
   and when it wasn't...
                         i opened another bottle of wine
that i made myself, and i don't know...
                  we started by ridding ourselves of god
to later replenish that end with a death of us,
it's almost as if we're staging parameters of being human
in this 2D construction site, on the basics:
merely exchanging opinions...
                                         i have, coming naturally:
this curiosity with the internet...
   i remember times of hotmail.com chatrooms...
      it's not as old as some people will claim the burden
to be, but the times when the ****** medium was
being sold to us... before facebook and subsequently otherwise
people were still very much comfortable before the television
set... but then people became less interested in
music and decided music could only exist in software
and not hardware, and i started to forage the berry shrubs of
youtube for music...
  i hope i don't precipitate any thought toward
nostalgia... bearing in mind i did establish myself
on the memory of having been to the cinema
to watch the films blow and austin powers 2:
the spy who shagged me - and in the latter case
i laughed at the shadow-scene like i might at
a laurel and hardy... and in the former case i loved
the music... and that's before comedy became too
"intelligent": too canned laughter...
revisionist existentialist, when dittoing can no longer
mean borrowing, or passing on a meaning,
                     or d.n.a. competition, when the end result
is but ~ (approximate) / ambiguity...
    the too intelliget: canned laughter...
                   the last time i really laughed at the movies
i was watching austin powers 2: the spy who shagged me...
the tent scene... it was the epitome of comedy,
a laurel and hardy slap stick incantation of a viewer...
   i guess it only comes with a sense of an individual
finding something so simple funny, that when
the same individual is dropped like a paratrooper into
a cinema audience: his laughter will become akin to
a virus, and thus become infectious and the individual
in mind because the cursor for canned laughter
later stored, to witness a televised episode of Friends
or Fraiser... which... would you believe it: aren't funny at all.
what was i going on about in the first place?
      ha ha... dunno... which makes Nick Harper a comic
genius... every time i see him
i laugh like a tickled ******* dangling off a bull horn
and two words ring a bell: mein shawl! and yes: it's
dramatically flinged, like i might be found
******* against the wind...
   quick question! five easy pieces rebel or cool hand
luke rebel?!

The wind is my lover
and the water that pivots
beneath the sky above me
could be any color for all
the attention I'm paying it.
For in the speed that whips
me about in a circle,
this world loses meaning.
As my hair gains independence
and my skin darts behind me
in the afternoon heat
and my limbs numb utterly
to victorious speed,
all my cares and leaden ties
are brought to light
and shown their insubstantiality;
they are spat derisively
into the dusk.

For the wind is my lover
and he sates my hungers
and visits with my youth
and quiets my longing
for sense with every velvet
torrent that passes through
my open hand.

And when the boat stops, I will break apart.
Would that the wind would grasp me and pull me
aft into the blackness beyond the shore.

I miss
Your crazy hair ( It fits you perfectly)
Your intoxicating eyes (I want to get lost in them)
Your beautiful smile (Especially the evil one)
Your cute nose ( I want to kiss it)
Your amazing mouth (mmmmm)
Your sensitive neck ( I can't wait to kiss it from behind)
Your **** shoulders ( I want to caress them slowly)
Your  toned arms ( I want you to wrap them around me)
Your smooth hands (I want them all over my body)
Your perfect ******* ( I want to lick, **** and motorboat them)
Your  toned back ( I want to rub it slowly)
Your yummy tummy ( I can't wait to kiss it on my way to ...)
Your swollen **** (I want to lap and **** it)
Your wet ***** ( I long to kiss, lick, finger and **** it)
Your incredible *** ( I want to bite it and slap it)
Your phenomenal legs ( I can't wait to spread them and have you wrap them around me)
Your adorable feet ( I want to massage them for you)
Your tiny toes ( I can't wait to paint your toenails again)
I miss your body, your mind and your spirit ( I want to be one with you) 22

"Can Poetry Matter?"
by
Stephen Dobyns

Heart feels the time has come to compose lyric poetry.
No more storytelling for him. Oh, Moon, Heart writes,
sad wafer of the heart's distress. and then: Oh, Moon,
bright ******* of the heart's pleasure. Which is it,
is the moon happy or sad, ******* or wafer? He looks
from the window but the night is overcast. Oh, Cloud,
he writes, moody veil of the Moon's distress. And then,
Oh, Cloud, sweet scarf of the Moon's repose. Once more
Heart asks, Are clouds kindly or a bother, is the moon sad
or at rest? He calls scientists who tell him that the moon
is a dead piece of rock. He calls astrologers. One says
the moon means water. Another that it signifies oblivion.
The girl next door says the Moon means love. The nut
up the block says it proves Satan has us under his thumb.
Heart goes back to his notebooks. Oh, Moon,, he writes,
confusing orb meaning one thing or another. Heart feels
that his words lack conviction. Then he hits on a solution.
Oh, Moon, immense hyena of introverted motorboat.
Oh, Moon, upside down lamppost of barbershop quartet.
Heart takes his lines to a critic who tells him that the poet
is recounting a time as a toddler when he saw his father
kissing the baby-sitter at the family's cottage on a lake.
Obviously, the poem explains the poet's fear of water.
Heart is ecstatic. He rushes home to continue writing.
Oh, Cloud, raccoon cadaver of colored crayon, angel spittle
recast as foggy euphoria. Heart is swept up by the passion
of composition. Freed from the responsibility of content,
no nuance of nonsense can be denied him. Soon his poems
appear everywhere, while the critic writes essays elucidating
Heart's meaning. Jointly they form a sausage factory of poetry:
Heart supplying the pig snouts and ****** tissue of language
which the critic encloses in a thin membrane of explication.
Lyric poetry means teamwork, thinks Heart: a hog farm,
corn field, and two old dobbins pulling a buckboard of song.

(from Pallbearers Envying the One Who Rides, 1999)

only one word prompted me: szło,  i.e. as it went...
urgh... phobias for slavs.... she was drininking tango...
(strachy na lachy, piła tango; czarna bandera! i or spanish y,
janosik! hula huj! niby, oby, nie prawda).
ugh, i sat there, on the throne, with my **** eager,
i felt sick more about a ******* relationship than the actual
taboo infested act... family via ****, what a dross!
back to level 1 of art, heterosexual, and onan,
                it was alway going to be
akin to history, and the caurosel... bilinigual "dyslexia" -
carousel... kabbalah in the moment, loss
of fixation on the tetragrammaton...
and i woke up today, fiddling with my hands
like a blind buddha...
that handsignal he is understood to "wave"
about in statue form, how the ring finger
bends and touches the thumb's nail...
and that's to represent a family,
index woman, middle man, pinky a child...
and why we use acronym base
for putting on a ring onto the ring finger,
touching the tip of thumb,
meaning Caesar said: all good...
outside the coliseum...
so that's what blind buddha said...
and like i already said,
in the future philosophers were sellers
of dictionaries, and lawyers were
sellers of thesarus rex...
you mention the dinosaurs,
and i'm supposed to say: you're the lucky un.
i drank in order to remember
that i must forget...
but still my previous life was flashing
before my eyes...
like i was about to engage in
re-imitating it... a *******'s load of hope
groping the eyes of those who,
stranded in the desert, suggested an oasis...
as the title suggest: always about
cliche, about a faux pas... and yes:
an opera...
  i want to be the linguistic orginating in
chemistry, seems i am,
how the english tongue took to
late christainity, the un-orthodox mention
of st. thomas' gospel unearthed from
an egyptian desert... 30 miles south of Cairo...
or so so...
            i might like to read an existential
novel of the children bound to feminism
and i.v.f., and how horrid it was to live
with your parents, and economy,
   and how the shame came,
in pakistani format...
                 just thinking...
my **** said much more 30 minutes prior,
but the i.v.f. narrative and how our nature
was dislodged by our power to overcome
our foundations, and still people died
in earthquakes and tsunamis...
                 but indeed, szło:
how it went...
                and thus my reason to give it ***...
like learning french, masculine and feminine forms,
of the said word,
  szła = she went; szedł = he was dasein / walked,
ergo revision szła = he was dasein...
   and that's the reason i didn't really
love my russian girlfriend, she said
polish was primarily defined by
   ш ш ш, i said huш, she said: шut up!
   the last love and the only and the end, of a concept
and matrimony to fiction.
let's deal with realities... play marbles,
talk about gambling and gamble...
**** it all away... flip coins and
do whatever is necessary, having found love
is rare more than a peacock feather for a quill,
and let's just, grow up.
every, single, time, that jewish ghetto freak
of a god comes up, an all encompassing word,
that can encompass mere noun, from mere sound,
from mere onomatopoeia, into a verb,
   a lament configuration that just encrusts itself
into the concept of a noumenon...
past terms, present terms, future terms...
and sexuality...
  szła шedł szło...
     three sexes, one, the last, neutral...
               and when psychology comes along to play
the game of anthropology you'll say
what i said... she dasein, he dasein,
   it, the world, happened...
                             and that's a thank you
to a philosopher of lore (20th century) for being
able to complicate my life, and
   celebrate the ghetto god of Jews...
  nah, they can keep the crucifix and their
Judas reward like altars...
  all that gold needs the stink of prayer
and sycophancy... like they do in Russia:
priest stands before the altar, reads an orthodox
verse, his back against the people kneeling
behind him, as the depiction of Judas
in the scenario of the last supper...
and you can't even sit and listen to the choir
doing a rendition of Bach... some church
attendant tells you to not sit...
and appreciate the choir...
"modern" Russia for you...
   what's with this cult of modernity?
we are living in times where modernity is cult,
it's nothing but cult, or the limit...
modernity is a cult of journalists...
they're almost anti-darwinist in their expression...
poetry, poetry has to, attack journalism...
i see no other way to go about it...
   marriage... hmmph! шło, how it went...
well... it went like this:
siała baba mak, nie wiedziała jak...
chłop powiedział.... i to było tak:
   an idiot mongolian played the imaginary
harmonica doing motorboat with
his lips and moving his index finger
up and down against the "slur" of excess phlegm...
(a woman was sowing poppies,
she didn't know how,
a man said: like this... and both became
Glaswegian ****** junkies to "feel" good)...
   i broke up with that russian hyenna
just before she embarked into m.d.m.a.,
yes, i'm a happily alcoholic concept of
sanity, for what sanity's worth looking
at other people claim their rites of passage
beyond religion, beyond anything,
as said: only choice, and subsequent regrets
and joviality: if prominent on the faces
of some you encounter in the fudge of
modern grey matter / area.
i can only say that this current transgender
movement is almost as prominent as
what's inherent in the english language,
how words like table, chair...
pineapple, do not have gender in the language
per se, there's no masculine or feminine
conceptualisation of simple things,
someone who's french might say
a chair has male qualities,
   and a table has feminine qualities...
it's subtle... refined to a very slight
           chance of spotting a variation of spelling...
e.g. шło (how it went), and the two variations,
one for man (шedł), and one for woman (шła)...
evidently the anglophone language has too
much money, and even more spare time,
to actually un-poeticize the nag hammadi library...
i mean, everyone is killing poetry,
but this sort of ****** is beyond any worth...
the genesis of this story begins with
psychiatry and the 1960s, primarily a Scot,
a Glaswegian, r. d. laing, coming straight out
of c. g. jung.... freud is for rich people and
the only oedipus: Wilhelm II of german...
it must be a luxury, it can't be anything but,
it must be a luxury to have dreams
and to also have an interpretation of them,
right? they call them the snowflakes generation...
i just call them freud-tards with their toothpicks
for trees forests of "depth".
looking at the way jesus is depicted, with a
void black halo around him:
i'm suspecting we wasn't a big dreamer,
to lift the veil: an imitation of Joseph,
seven lean years, seven bountiful...
   and how so few of us actually have a rich
dream life... we don't, not everyone is invited
to lead such a double life...
  some do, and they have recurrent dreams,
well, one dream over and over and... what a boring life.
i dream sometimes, but it looks like scrambled eggs,
too many: dreams within dreams...
   then again, if i followed the diagnostics of
w. burroughs, i'd probably feel embodied in dreams
if i shot up ******... or smoked it...
  but i prefer a rested body anyway.
so yeah, a bit quasi-etymological,
those "idiosyncratic" but rather specific words:
шło... id.... that it went / how it went...
  and so it went...
english doesn't have a *** in language,
   nothing to decipher whether a man or woman uses
it, unless you congest it with
   excess pronoun shrapnel...
          excess pronoun and conjunction shrapnel...
the only thing that resembles saxon in post-Hastings
french viking invasion are the way chemical
nouns reflect what a german makes of
antidote to claustrophobia:
                  habbeschneizergoo, or thereabouts.
let's just say: language as theory.
   this is mine... what do you have?
ah... right... a concrete heart, an empirical heart...
does that allow counter defining an origin
not related to the big bang, but a meow or a woof
of knuckling a tree... i.e. extracting sounds
and later appropriating the invocation of sound
to later state pointless mantra, and otherwise
read more, see less?
   if we're talking sounds, or the big bang
is my idea of the φoνoς, look... the ancients
beginning with Heraclitus had logos...
or word, until that concept became ghetto...
now we have so much music, and that one
defining "sound"... i say φoνoς, to counter
the science of the bang... and yeah, it's apparently "big"...
just learn a science to a degree level,
and then relax unlearning it writing philosophy...
you just might spontaneously write poetry,
     and gave a libido of a Solomon, but no harem;
gents! handshakes! handshakes!

philosopher says when he sees v: aha! a future parabola theory given that the romans chiseled v when they meant u!
poet says when he sees v: veer from w into saggy "missing the horizon attachment origin" with a u, could have been a ***** of B... we're here to make sounds... we're not here to make words into poster boys girlies french braiding their hair into ideas and lipgloss.*

but you had to face the 110m hurdles,
i had to become a don quixote, fencing with shadows,
shadow boxing as if simply training,
you could run from dyslexia and the abuse hurled at you,
you had to face an external battle,
i’m facing an internal battle... phantoms and imagery...
you had the external ahead of you, with a wife to be listened to,
i have... no body!
myself and only myself,
of course i am like an elevation of rat... i’m a carnivore
that trips to the supermarket for a 70cl of whiskey
every night, hunting my way to a state of sedatives used,
i know no other drug with or without a prescription...
**** saturday night... it can go to hell...
yes i will get a council flat ahead of the scamming ******
that are like ant queens on the reproductive conveyor belt
(believe me... write like a homosexual to get the g-spots!
have homosexual misogyny in your underwear!)
that’s a muslim donning niqab curtains seller 1.7 (seven being the children),
curse of the economy! get them politicised, angry self-believers
only self-believing by faked passports and fake health-wise ills
from the natural contenders to wear the boxing gloves...
who said things like trevor mc lure: you might remember me
from such existential paradoxes as:
punch my cancer into a liver, punch my cancer up,
liver me up paddy, scots ahoy... ah... what a tagline trendy,
i could almost become an adidas’ stripes of america or malaysia...
so there’s me buying my usual buddy... ‘no coke today?’
‘no, spare coke left, i’ll have this pint of bach to share with the bottle
of whiskey... mind your inquisitive whiskers of the tongue...’
she pretended suicidal tendencies all along...
started cutting veins en route arteries for a fake sing-along cry-along...
made no sense, i slept with my clothes on...
women are crafty bishops... they don’t do communion
but get to craft a second birth certificate of confirmation,
the womb that turned into a cross... we were all squeezed out from
that geometric that said oh oh zero o hay ‘oo;
first spot the letter u... then w... then h... the third letter i’m not familiar with...
too many papyrus scripts burning... can’t spot the latinised version,
i think i’ll need to brew and thus ferment a pint of whiskey to get this one...
just to get 1, 2, 3, 4 up in scales, should have been written as
1cm and exasperation(noun).
i had something originally... but then i decided to digress...
it was like a full house poker sequence... but without cards
and more humans than could be required for believability...
it’s almost... it’s almost like i was jealous feeding the sight
of a man in mid-life looping the thought of cool with the thought
of being cool when adorned with childish ambition to have it
as a child having only bought it as a semi-wrinkled naiveness
that worked its solipsistic magic of: gone are the days
of ***** magnet... come the days of a badger ******* it;
give way... here comes oral *** mummified - mum’s the word
filing is the action... testosterone does not equate itself as ****** *****...
down below australia did a roulette action and decided to
geographically spread its legs for the sire of cocksure ***** india...
enter... the mongolian harmonica trick of the index and lip motorboat:
baba hamza baba hamza ali ali contra v.!
so? i sharpened my u into a v... are you sure you
don't understand the question: vat iz veh vay?

"granday"

its not a *******
twang,
like a rubber band loosened up,
you're like a white sheet
with absolutely no
wrinkles no
lint no
culture.

its not a droop of letters,
like the syllables are carrying old bathwater
on hunched spines;

you sound like dusty paper
left on the shelf too long.

its
"grande"
poner un verano en tus palabras.
put some summer into your words.

fill your mouth with mid-august sweat
and belt it out like a pistol,
bullets ripping the fabric of blue
sky.
you are a flame in snow,
your tongue is supposed to be dancing on the top of your mouth
when you say it,

"grande"
roll your 'r's like you would to tamales in
corn flour,
like you would your body in mud
carpeting every inch of your soul in dark, crusted
veneer,
stuck between your toes.

your tongue is supposed to be ***.
exotic chocolate,
french rain.

your tongue is supposed to be like a wild motorboat upon
the raging ocean,
hitting the 'r's with savage animosity
                                                    "g­-rrrrrrrr-ande"
none of these
"grandays"
words like plummeting wrinkles
under tired eyes, your lips like dead fish floating
shallow and flaccid
in lukewarm
soup.
like rotting fruit left out too long,  
squashed, useless, a waste.

do not fill your mouth with
mierda,
****
poner un verano en tus palabras.
put some summer into your words.

why do i have to be a dog for my cats?
the male one is teasing my
neighbour's dog...
the dog starts barking,
doesn't stop...
so i start barking...
a dismembered word
rough with a range of
neared onomatopoeias...
i hate barking, it never sounds
like a dog... more like a
dinosaur... Ra! (a name for a roar),
a tongue's trill at the ******'s in-between...
i hate barking...
or like at the chemists, an old man and me,
i had the seat, asked if he wanted it,
he said no,
we were both waiting for a prescription...
'well, if you're not taking it
i'll stand with you in show of solidarity'
my arms folded like a pigeon or a crow
strutting... well, if he ain't going to sit
i'm not going to sit either....
there you go, solidarity, **** Wałensa...
mushy mushy overgrown moustache nozzle...
brr brr... do the motorboat of oral ***
like you're expressing shrivelling watching
the northern lights! yep, got you...
selfie taken... now make a pose for
Lactose Falls of the waterfalls from your
eyeing *******... yep... that's a happy couple...
take two! no, you ******* go off and wait
in the tourists' queue
like the other 100 ******* did politely.

If you look a little closer

On the sandy beach covered with shells
A group of teens are bashing gays
One kid goes as far as to say that
He’d **** the first queer he meets
After a while a tall blond, muscular guy asks
“Do you think I’m strong?”
The others are sheep nodding in approval
“Do you think I can get girls?”
Again they agree
“Am I a good friend to all of you?”
He seems to like all of the admiration
Suddenly in the midst of their praise
He states,
“I’m gay.”

If you look a little closer

Out on the peacock blue water
Rests a tiny motorboat
A boy and a girl sit far out on the lake
The boy is yelling at the girl
Leaning over her at the edge of the boat
Between them is a pink cell phone
With a text reading,
“ok, I love you,” from Corey
The boy is calling her a slur of horrible names
She doesn’t get a chance to say it’s her brother
He slaps her across the mouth
The girl isn’t going to stand another minute of it
She pushes back,
Sending him plunging into the peacock blue water

If you look a little closer

There’s a ******* the beach
She’s a little fat
You can see straight pink scars
On her thighs and stomach
She’s with a cute boy
Lying in the sand together
A group of girls park themselves
Within ear shot of the pair
They start commenting on the whale at the beach
When they spot the lines on her body
They talk about attention ******
How insecure they must be
The boy walks by the posse to get a drink
The girls stop him on his way back to ask
Why he’s with “that thing”
The girl holds her breath and covers her stomach with a towel
“Because I love her.”
“Well,” says the lead *****
“You must love everything that’s fat and ugly.”
The boy pauses
“I don’t love any of you.”
He walks back to the girl and kisses her right there.

If you look a little closer*

You might see

The courage to stand up for what’s right
Strength within
That love conquers all.

believe me, you grow out of it
(*******),
   you reach the natural conclusion
as women do,
    experiencing menopause,
your's the least actrattive cunterpart,
no choice...
          you just grow out of it...
you just get bored
                       you just grow out of it...
it literally become a case of
   huh?
     yep, it becomes a hmm equation...
and if you're not married,
  5p.m. feels like 9a.m.,
                         the **** is going on?
fyck, uleterior motive for spelling
   thick...
           so what the fyck's going on?
pop culture... fuckle me...
                   send some more sleeping
pills my way,
    so i can pretend to be in a
heavyweight boxing match
         fighting both klitschkos
   at the same time, in street fighter mode
of pretending to be blanka /
            zangief / vega?
    i'd **** over him
               any-day-of-the-week,
such **** ******* /
     dhalsim - mr. stretch-armstrong /
                           mr. fantastic...
tekken never conjures up
an equation
      that music does
   i.e. the beatles (street fighter)
vs. the rolling stones (mortal kombat)...
tekken never really made it
         for "equality" status:
                        equal status, i get it;
nonetheless, men tend to grow
out of the practice of *******,
  just like women
   are automated to experience
menopause...
                       you just get bored
of the hand as ****...
                       d'uh dummy dum dum
+ a mongolian harmonica
    (index moving up & down
with the lips perforking
          the motorboat effect,
encapsulated within the brrrrrrrrr;
sure, the missing trill of the r in english...
    and there are no diacritic indicators
that the letter ought to be the sole-source
of vibration...
           hence no roll with the umlaut ä -
   sounds like chinese wow wow wow yo
  boat...
             yoyo that ****?
      count that as two:
          hämmer, i.e. haamer...
          i.e. hāmmer...
              or ha'mmer... so what's with
the trigonometry of the m?
  how many more times do you have
to wave a goodbye?      
                  but the scandi- version?
middle-class english,
   i love their slang,
        they slang a longer word into
a shorter word,
   but never bother to adffix a hyphen
for invigorative measures...
    it always seems to be: oxford approved;
if americans are yanks...
                   the british? wanks;
jiggy-jiggy-mah-jig.
         totality bound by sources found
    in either peckham or hackney;
oh right, the roll...
  an aangstroom, i.e.  ångström...
                    linguistic ballistics...
        **** gets funnier when writing fiction,
the irish and the slav prefer the hyphen
of differentiation in a convo, i.e.
  - and so
- so what?
the post-germanic tribes of anglo saxons and
americans?
    they prefer the inverted commas
and the he said...
                          e.g. "i was saying," he said.
yes, i know that's a fictional character
"speaking",
     but you could at least count,
   toward expressing the correct arithmetic,
i.e. 'i was saying,' he said;
                            yes,
i know no one was saying anything,
             you were thinking someone
was saying something you "said"...
          so why was it never the irony of "citing"
with only two index fingers,
   as opposed to
         two index and two middle fingers?
i swear to god, that's not how
you quote...
                    if you're ever going to quote;
it can only mean
   a beginning of ambiguity,
   by invoking "     ", you're making war
on the thesaurus.

the more i stick to a routine
that might leave a few people in a mental
asylum,
    who would not welcome
frustration, doing the same thing,
over and over again,
   i.e. going to a supermarket and buying
whiskey and coke, becoming "too" friendly
with one of the shop assistants,
    knowing her name,
that's she's diabetic:
i'm only in here for the whiskey luv...
it's not that i mind,
  it's about as close i'll ever become
bewildered at life, in general...
      **** Jupiter and a moon-landing,
this bothers me more,
   i don't get the puppy-eyed look
of people embarking on a philosophical
odyssey -
i don't know why i should be prescribed
the Aristotelian: beginning with awe
  type of management of the subject,
or what Nietzsche predicted,
   and is currently known:
the narrative in the west,
alias: talking for the entire human species...
   that ****** uber-schnurrbart
really did see something...
   now i'm experiencing it,
  it's called 2 billions worth of China and India...
i'm actually, sometimes found,
listening to pointless youtube videos...
  i get it: it can get a little bit *****,
my bachelor status isn't exactly orientated
around diapers, although,
as Borat might have said:
that would be nice...
         you know they filmed that movie
in Romania, and not Kazakhstan?
              it's almost a bid sad to be around
poverty, and tribalism,
     can't make a joke out it,
couldn't make a mid-western gothic out
of it either... what with t.v. in your own company....
and yes, oddly enough...
   i have a bed, and i turn on the radio,
i never fall asleep watching the t.v.,
must be a western thing... you dig?
    1950s slang, more comprehensible than
anything i could ever hear from the slang
quarter of language these days...
   the latin quarter? busy...
literally... greece and italy backrupt...
    so, hey man, what's it like not able
to *** around the country doing factotum jobs?
    what's with that over-arching
castration concept of living with your parents?
ah, you know man,
   ****'s on the stove, and i hit a ****** note
with my saxophone...
sound very much like a wet ****...
you know, the **** you **** that almost feels
like ingesting carbonated water through your ****,
what's the word: trembling, frizzy?
    you know: do the motorboat with your lips...
i woke up today and didn't feel like living,
but the noose wasn't exactly an option...
my grandparent's neighbour?
hanged himself on a door-****,
i was visiting them when it happened...
****'s sake! on a door-****?
                      that's really desperate...
    i mean: i wish i was that guy...
but at least in the case of capital punishment:
when it was still active...
   you got the scaffold... and you dropped...
and your neck broke, and it was death in an instant...
   he had a gimp for an executioner...
   so yeah, life's cool,
i drank that wine i made in less than a week,
35 litres of it...
         i woke up today, thought:
give me the downhill... right now!
i thought i'd delay *******...
          built a quasi lego piece of the Eiffel tower,
then decided... i need to brush my teeth...
had a shower...
              then i cooked dinner...
  well... dinner two days in advance...
one sauce was a spaghetti bolognaise...
another a sauce for cottage (i.e. using beef,
not lamb) pie...
made some funky cool poh-ta-toes...
               for yesterday's roast beef,
left uncarved the previous day by being
left to get the thrill man gets
   ******* and jumping out of an ice bath...
so the juices condense, and you can almost
make out the pink flesh on the second day...
and some ménage à trois.... oh sorry...
too much Dell Boy Trotter in me at the moment:
gosh... the memories of watching that twichy
character on screen... mangetout...
and in between i took off the washing from
the washing lines in the garden...
             faked smoking sitting in the february
cold for a while...
   that's 2 meals in advance that is...
      and this really belongs to a creed that states:
if you can read... it's better to read about
something that doesn't have cars blowing up,
or avalanches... or dams bursting in northen
california... well: it's not exactly
   tolstoy's war and peace... but it's something
that allows for sensationalism of the news
and the odd chance of seeing a good movie...
    or i guess: the antidote to a good poem,
is the worst imaginable poem, actually...
saying that: people call poems bad when
they are rigid in using technique...
poetic technique... i prefer a stance on
spare of the moment / spontaneity than something
that might require a hammer of metaphor
and a nail of a pun...
           some call it innovation,
others can't say much because they're myopic...
and lo! yonder the savannah and the buckling
gazelle! right on the chin...
hoofs, no shoelaces, back legs made front legs
into spaghetti... and there... a plum on the chin...
boom... down onto the green...
          another consideration would be
a man in clown make-up crying,
    and a fat-cat billionaire laughing...
    or was that ever, not the case?
  it has to be idiosyncratic, this english "thing"
of calling laughter crying and crying laughter...
     it actually is a very english "thing",
when you get too much psychology,
about how keeping the word ego can complicate
merely saying i...
  and there's no other latin word in sight,
and you then get egoism, and egocentrism...
    i mean: what's up with that basis for a theory,
    evidently it's a case of the word becoming
too uncomfortable, since no one actually says
  ego cogito ergo ego sum... it suddenly drops off
and people who say the above end up only saying
cogito ergo sum... and is that why people
you can actually ascribe so much theory to the ****** word
that might rob people from having a narrative?
    rob the people of a narrative and you return them
into a state of being pulverised by 5 vectors,
the pentagon of the senses,
    and evidently they're unable to narrate their
day-to-day, because they're herded like wild
hysterical animals... even though they are
given the membrane of civilisation...
      it really is a case of somehow not embarking
into keeping the latin and the north barbarian
words... how can you keep up
with ego, i, self? how long will this italian
**** of bulimia and gluttony last?
     you want to keep spewing that *******
for another 100 years?
evidently there is no theory concerning i,
there's merely an ipod...
              sure sure, you could only derive a
theory if you said the unit wasn't i
(because that would be too personal to construct
a narrative) - but had to be
   the reflective ego, and the reflexive self...
i.e. that string of pronoun compounds known
as myself, itself, himself...
   and when given the scalpel... my self
   (which becomes a reflective stance on meditating
the words, rather than a reflexive pronoun
in its original... no huh? but thump!
on yer bike! go!).
   i call them for what they are...
        yes, and my parents are great,
cooked them dinner...
   just about now, when in the 1970s and 1980s...
when the first cold war was happening,
the americans / the west merely wanted
to feed stories into the soviet union,
if every spying was a c.v. joke, it happened
when ian flemming wrote his series...
   what ever happened to a campfire and telling
stories, or when we told horror stories to each other?
  spying: can you just imagine
what the job description would look like?
pst... it's a secret.
       but you know, the americans had this thing
of telling stories to the "enemy",
     false news...
                it's so obvious now, since everyone
seems to be onto it...
     well... it's happening in england, right now,
but it's not exactly an attack scenario...
it's self-mutilation, yes, a masochism...
  you reach a real dead-end when you tell lies
to yourself... and that's what england is sitting
on: an implosion of well... the n.h.s. in crisis...
the housing crisis...
                 you name it...
  i guess there were many people out there,
willing to sacrifice their sanity, by appropriating
the excesses of c.c.t.v. voyeurism,
mingled with the excesses of ***** that paved
the way to this massive delusion of the next
jain boond to swing on a rope into a gorilla
enclosure and beat the **** out of a 300kg gorilla,
Klitschko style! bang! bang boom!
    silverback gorilla on a torture rack!
job done.
       no, i get it... a girl got to kick-box and a girl
got to play footie... cos girl can...
     wait till she don't get a: fragile heart...
like mine, writing odes about
walking past a church when the church bells ring
eleven times, and there's the moon...
  it will become very very pointless writing
about hearts of porcelain in the future,
      but just as nietzsche pointed out:
imagine talking for the entire human race...
yes, i can, or should i say could? because i don't
have to...
   the western narrative is so up it's own
*** talking about species, while the Moldovians
are talking about Ukranians,
the Poles are talking about Germans,
   the Italians... they talk all the time,
so who cares?
                but it's this globalisation vocabulary
that's halting, and making me think:
the Genghis Khan tribe isn't exacrtly in
the news? they must have neighbours!
they must actually know the people living near them...
well...
   on my street... 6 houses in a row of
identical architecture, i.e. built in the 1940s...
   first house, sikhs...
    parents went to the daughter's wedding,
woman brought over some curry,
   i ended up making even better curry...
my cat is left in their care while i'm away
visiting my grandparents,
   i get this panic attack premonition
  that i need to be back home when i'm away...
   i come back home, the cat is dead...
   we rarely speak these days...
  he was on aspirins, and yes, cats take a ******
long time to die from kidney failure...
ever watch a cat ****? cats take a shorter amount
of time to take a **** than ****...
   watching a cat **** into the toilet it like
watching a person drinking a melchizedek sized
wine bottle...
   a cat could be a man
   as a man taking a **** as in the cat taking a ****
and reading a newspaper...
     seems we're parallel creatures,
  i exfoliate and massage my **** muscles
by taking extra time with them stretched open
once the bombs away passes...
    and i'm just sitting there:
  to vank?! or not to vank? or what i call:
the 3 in 1.
        well, you can't exactly think about
lighting scented candles and doing it in bed,
can you?
      you'd have to be a woman to do that,
and invest in a good ***** replica
of a man that would only tell her:
honey... tree bears.
    do i sometimes think about putting it into
a moist couch-like environment?
   yeah... but i guess ******* is a bit like
doing ****... **** the bone and those muscles man!
   ****? yeah... never did it...
biblical regulations...
              about the same time when
heterosexuals take over from the once famed
taboo provocateurs in the homosexual department...
haven't seen a worthwhile Oscar Wilde come from
that scene for years... maybe i wasn't looking,
ah yes, they're too busy being "normal" and starting
families... funs over... and so is the art.
no wait, all i wanted to say is that
what nietzsche said in the 19th century,
  the anglophone world is trapped in it's own
end product of globalisation, and this whole:
speaking for the entirety of humanity doesn't have
and local thrill to it, no local accent,
      it's scary, to be the only language willing
to speak for the entire human race,
  and, when travelling to other places in the world
realising that you were pretty much:
not thinking, and merely talking to your self...
    i have that taste for foreign cultures...
   you can hardly hear an existential argument
in the same vein as you might hear in england...
     basically... i just think that english is
over-streched...
     in the case of russian, it's stretched:
but contained with interlocking tribes of people...
if i want to hear english sprechen in the pacific
it's a 12 hour flight to australia...
               i can't imagine talking for
the entire human race... and given this
seemingly ancient german, i'm imagining it
as the counter-argument of the current narrative,
because i can't even state that i'm in awe of it,
but more or less apprehensive about it...
given the numbers... the total anglophone world
doesn't even number that of China...
and you know, infiltrating that place with
the complexity of the encoded sounds that are
later echoed back as Xin Ping...
    who lived in Beijing...
            you really have to address either silent,
or talking about something so complicated,
that it would equal the Chinese encoding system...
  otherwise it's falling through the holes...
oh look... q r o p a d b g...
  the best we can do is make silence complicated,
since what i'm hearing: isn't exactly complicated...
on youtube most noteworthy...
   oh right, almost forgot...
the other neighbours on my 6 house line
are a Jewish family... well... sorta...
   just a literal mad-house... we get on fine...
and after that: 3 houses, natives, so yeah, english...
all of them broken families...
   the neighbours next to mine are:
woman in her late 40s... man in his early 50s...
about to have a child...
       after that it's single mother and son,
and after that divorcee and... like... dunno...
     they thought the indians were savages
moving across the pond...
              i'm sitting here having a right old laugh...
and it's a malicious laugh for the laugh in itself...
        last time i remembered
  taking a mouse from the mouth of my cat
after he caught it, and then releasing the mouse
  into my neighbour's garden...
   or a fly... crawling over my forehead
     while i took a selfie to exfoliate my face
like that of an acne riddled moon.

It’s polarized like a Kodak Picture
you're clicking in to all my secret desires
I slipped them to you like a patsy to a fortune teller
Am I dreaming?
Cause all this seems to be made for me
Though I hate rowing
you promised me a motorboat
a yacht with infinite wind in her sails
Soon as I toil here for a few years
you’ll let me into that life
Walking down Easy Street
with a gleam in my eye
knowing I could buy watches and bags

for some reason, i never seriously branched away from american rock / metal into the alternative of black metal or viking metal of scandinavian... the finnish music scene gave me an appeal for their music... given the folk tale of herr mannelig... well... it's come down to: either hedningarna or gjallarhorn, when drinking, you really want to mellow out... you still like classical music, but you just can't keep up with the shrieks and the heavy guitars anymore... you want to return to the roots of melody, above ferocity... god, i hate the strauß family... i can't stand that sort of music... the non-contemplative type... it doesn't allow any meditation... because you imagine yourself constantly dancing... dying from st. vitus' dance / sydenham's chorea... there's nothing contemplative from their music, their waltzes are cannot entertain thinking, only dancing, or clapping to the rhythm.

existentia (existence)
     "existence" (existenz)
   ex-sistere ("to exist", "to stand out")
strutting among non-beings:
            
  cogito - sum   (i am thinking - i am)
   the simultaneous answer,
      
the vector guiding the cartesian sum
   is to provide conversation

the vector guiding the cartesian cogito
is to provide an anti-claustrophobia
   (you can really become claustrophobic
  in a conversation... i.e. be put on the spot /
    high heels, of uncomfortableness).

ah... *ex-sistere ("to exist", "to stand out")...
isn't that the western mantra for
individualism?
                   how can it not be?
why is individualism so sacred,
        so nauseating? this segregation of
one's own, from the ownership of all and
no one?
              it took king solomon to look at
an ant, which didn't exactly transcribe into
a humbling... just an crying out of
what individualism leads to: vanity! all is vanity!
                   vanus! vanus est omni!
ah, but no day is void of its content,
   as being the vessel of emptiness,
  the day, is a vessel brimming, full,
   a dam about to collapse, that fills me
with at least something that otherwise makes
me devoid, of entertaining it, in the first place.

but all these "political" conversations...
    these conversations might as well
start off with a sticker:
   hi, my name is...          bob.
i listen to these political discussion and
think...
         wow! the cartesian libra
       weighs so much toward the "i am"
side of the measures...
     such is the scenario of poly-identifactions...
i'm a liberal, i'm a conservative, i'm a progressive,
i'm into alt. right, i'm i'm i'm this that and the other...
given the conversation, and a complete
lack of silence i.e. thought,
           i'm also about to create a collage
of identificators...
   but i'll begin with: hi, my name is...      bob;
like any goldfish might.
        
  to me these people are talking presuppostions,
they are presupposing they are what they "are"...
     which suggests their thinking aligns itself
to suppositions, that they "are"
                          what they "think" they are...
they're not thinking, they're talking...
   non-stop, ad nauseam...
               i gather that people who are
       vox-philic, are also musica-phobic...
sometimes i think about knocking on a door
for about 10 years and not have it open
than listen to these people talk "politics".
       sometimes listening to hammering
in nails on a building site sounds more entertaining;
oh wait, should that be dico-philic / sermo-philic?
      whatever.
     i found that the people who love talking,
have no passion for music.

     silverchair - freak:
lyrics -
               no more maybes, the baby's got rabies,
       in the middle of the andies... yeah, heh!
i'm a freak. nature!
   yeah, heh!e
    if only i could be as cool as you.
   ****** and soul, i'm a freak, i'm a freak...
           trying to be different...
   whatever different disease...

   yep.... index finger moving against the motorboat
effect of the lips vibrating...
       hey presto! a mongolian harmonica.
              
ex omne diem
                  (out of every day)
               out of every moment...
    there is a driving momentum,
              to counter the shackles of systematic
clarification of what existence actually is,
or can be, or will or never will be,
            for what existence was...
                         is an selective memorisation...
a memory drives my curiosity more than
a spontaneous thought...
                 the thought is in the now,
a memory is in the what was...
           when walking in the desert of thought,
you must certainly stumble against
   the mirage oasis of a memory, suddenly arising...
i count memory, to have a higher status
     in the hierarchy of mental faculties
as that of dreams...
             for one... memory is attacked by
institutionalised learning, say,
       the pythagoras...
                                    i rather respect memory,
and keep as much of it as i can,
   than demand an interpretation of dreams...
i literally, have no respect for dreams...
                      none...
        memory though?
        memoriam est grata, somnio est non grata
(memory is welcome, dreaming is not welcome).

She is my Dulcinea, my Erato:
My fantasy and my Muse.
I am the lighthouse in the storm:
the one to guide her safely home.

If your heart is open to walk this path
take my hand and I will tell you more....

I have an affinity for the language.
Some have called me a cunning linguist.
But I struggle to craft the next line,
Words to tell her exactly how I feel.
because....
"motorboat your hoo-ha" doesn't really flow.

a    a    a    b    1    b    c    c    c
d    d    d    e    7    8    2    f    4
2    g    1    h    h    h    7    i    5
j     j      j    6     k    3    8   4    l
4   6     m   n    n    n    o   o   o
p   p     p    9    q    7    1    2   r
5   s      8    t      t    t     6    u  9
v   v     v    w    9    4    3    x   2
y   y    y     z     6   z   ω   ω   ω

and the end result

7   5   4   2   1   6   9   3   8
6   9   3   5   7   8   2   1   4
2   8   1   4   3   9   7   6   5
9   1   2   6   2   3   8   4   7
4   6   7   1   8   2   5   9   3
8   3   5   9   4   7   1   2   6
5   4   8   3   2   1   6   7   9
1   7   6   8   9   4   3   5   2
†   2   x   7   6   5   4   8   1

but the original
cispher was

a   a   a   b   1   b   c   c   c             (x9)
and then filling out the cipher,
x is the point where a mistake was made,
but it actually 9,
    while † denotes the signature of leaving
a blank space...
as in: any idiot can complete this puzzle...

i thought i could fit the puzzle with
the entire latin alphabet, evidently that wasn't
the case, since i borrowed omega (ω)...

each square x   x   x
                     x   x   x
                     x   x   x              (oh, this isn't
smart, i'm just dumb enough to do these
puzzles drunk)...
             so three lines, and each row has
to be documented by a letter, hence a  a  a  
  and then onto the next square and it's b  b  b
and then the third square c  c  c
         and then onto the next row and so on...
so i ran out of letters,

by god, i didn't expect the latin alphabet to
encompass the japanese puzzle...
          but i was close... just 1 letter short...
so i borrowed some greek... or pinched some
cinnamon and added to it that "exotic" flavour...

you know that in england the english teachers
tell the black kids that poland is exotic?
          i heard my mother recount this when
she was at the swimming pool...
a kid asked her where she was from,
     and then this exotica debate began...
how ******* palm trees grow on the beaches
of the Baltic sea...

           you start believing in america after a while,
and thinking of slapping someone silly
for they behave like a jelly: if you can visualise
slapping someone, or gently probing a jelly...

the art of sudoku? it's in the eye,
   you have to begin by complicating it first
unable to see the blank spaces that the newspaper
editions have... once you're at the stage of
only using numbers it can become a bit of a whirlwind,
like hyper-spelling very complicated words...

maybe i can't do crosswords because i write so much?
perhaps i don't do crosswords because i abhor
the dictionary? have enough vocab,
if i want to study some obscure topic i'll look into
it.

i have met people that can't do these puzzles,
but i can't do crosswords,
   i see to much infinite potential in language,
as it is, per se, to have to deal with it as
counter-dementia entertainment -
            plus it's funny when doing one of these drunk...
less embarrassing moments sort of speak...
      
  or to simply prove a point that it can be done,
it took me about 10 minutes with darting eyes
    inserting the first digit into the super fiendish
level of the puzzle, and yes, it was a 3

i.e.

0   8   0   0   0   0   0   0   0
7   0   5   5   0   0   0   0   0
0   5   0   3   0   0   0   1   0
0   3   9   0   0   0   1   0   7
0   0   0   0   1   0   0   6   0
0   0   0   0   3   0   9   0   8
0   0   0   2   0   6   0   0   1
0   0   8   0   7   0   0   4   9
0   0   0   4   0   3   2   7   0

                    and all that can be, about simply
easing the human mind away from darwinistic
propaganda... at least in poland we had the atheism
that invoked this collective: no god or other species
is getting in our way...
                these soloists spewing atheism are
******* unnerving...
                                 this whole:
we as 1 but not as 1 as sigma but not as sigma
so ergo 1... taking a polaroid about a baboons ***?
   talking so much darwinism that women started
looking at mantis behaviour?
     how about you don't chop my head off...
just chop my ***** off! then i'll at least have a chance
to enter the Vatican's castrato choir!
                  
        life under the iron curtain wasn't so bad,
life under martial law was, people were gearing up
for war, what could anyone expect if not long queues
for provisions?
                         the russians played a **** good bluff
as it turns out, no war occurred and the soviet
union collapsed like an avalanche
              and everyone went back to their happy
oligarchal sentiments, esp. in Kazakhstan...
             so like: win win?
         but now i'm sitting in england and trying to figure
out home-grown terrorism, among other things:
the stigma of the housing shortage, a family of 7
living in one room...
                      why is it that ever new century
breeds this need for inherent hardship /
                                  frivolous complication,
until it escalates into something much more serious?
like sitting in belgian mud for 4 years and *******
into a helmet?
                         that said, there's a joy to be had,
finding the re-
                 (again) rather than the i -
                       at the moment i'm looking at a decade
or two of squandering the freedoms we envision,
  a bit like writing the great gastby moment...
after that... a message will be sent to only 1 wasp...
and then the hive will start to panic and grow
agitated and begin a blitzkrieg...
       but at least you can imgine that i'm writing
this from the setlist of phobias...
                   so... would i care for this to not be
a truth? yes, i would... i'd love to think writing
this had me with my head up a baboon's ****
or lips-motorboat and my index finger
                              up-and-down-up-and-down
to imitate a mongolian harmonica...
as much as any man, desiring a peace
that might be justified to walking down a street
in the night with a bottle of beer and not giving a ****.

/                                 ....i started to, sort of,
                           forget the world...

i mean:

            reading karin jones' article,
        and the extra s she uses,
                                  after an apostrophe?

i can't but gloat in literary
                                                   pedantry -
              everyone else does some
sort of pedantic excuse
to begin with...

            the welsh & irish marching
band?
             so... that's o.k.?

        ha ha!
            i just love their nibbling
of a coherent march of bodies
in a slavic army,

               quasi-****: feet above hands...

nibbling "marching" while standing
still,
           nibbling,
                      a proper ****-up fest...

shame about those red coats
adorned by, what appears to be,
   a ****** fest of marching squares...

i'll admit:
   that's the only time you can
make a genuine laughter excuse...
       the british army's parade squadron...

****: have to get my mongolian
harmonica out for this opinion...
  
   motorboat of fluffly lips +
             an up & down index finger
moving, just shy of
                    interfering with the lip...
****!
        can't even ascribe
an onomatopoeia
                                  to that ****!

foul mouth?
      well, i did pay an extra £10
   on the already brothel owner's £10
entry fee,
   for the £110 for an audience
with a woman:
                that no psychiatrists
can replace -
                     and will end up bashing
his head against a brick wall
to suspend compensation...

                the extra £10?
                         oral ***...
   a my my my my my what
                       a mighty paradox!
prostitutes charge an extra £10
to perform oral *** on them,
   on top of the £110 you already paid
for an hour...
   but then when you kiss
them, they become divisive...

        sneaky ******* that i am...
i'm glad that i managed to steal
at least two,
       to pardon a faculty of
                   memory and banking...

toes, wrist, that thing that's a first
at the end of the foot connecting
the fetish...

                         it really is hilarious!
how can a nurse, check my pulse,
when touching my wrist?!

              i've already spotted two
places on my body, where she actually could,
but won't...

   under the right arm-pit,
   and just above the right-side of
the collar-bone...

    i gather that the latter posit is more
hygienic...
   but come on!
             pulse reading... on the wrist?!
can you actually "read" (count)
a pulse in an area of so much
bone shrapnel, veins... but no arteries?!

i thought you needed an artery
to check a pulse,
   rather than veins, that... literally
have no measure of the heart's existence,
rather: what encompasses
being in the possession of other organs
having utilißed... well... their utility!

she doesn't kiss... but charges an extra £10
to perform oral *** on her...

you would really think it was
the other way round.

who reads a pulse while pressing down
on a wrist?!
      you could count it

   without that ****** artefact of
cold pressed against the chest
        (algorithm the noun:  
  ...      ...             ....................  
         .. . .            .....
                  ............      
medical instrument to check pulse
  ...      ...             ....................  
         .. . .            .....
                  ............    ....        ....
****... new entry:
        medical hearing aid................
.... ...          ....           ....       .. .....
   ..........................................
****, no good)

                      within the confines
of the two "mandarin voodoo" coordinates
on the body i already stressed!

but no...
      medical arithmetic of the heart
on the tip of a finger,
or by squeezing
                      the bicep and tricep
part of the arm to expose an artery...

    i already possess knowledge of two!
two! arteries in my body,
and all i had to do was... find them!

it's like 20th and 19th century
anthropological studies made
                                  europeans dumb;

sorry...
  
               techno-*******-cratic.

Must we wait for stars when our love seems enough to light the way
can't we be moons for the nights, shall we keep waiting for the day?
are we going to enjoy the beams from our eyes
or just remain poles apart longing for the moment beaming sun will rise?
must we always wait for sleep  just so we finally dream
can't we conciously dare to dream about letting our passion scream?
shall we wait for Oceans to dry,can't we build bridges
will the door of our affinity last that long on these rusty hinges?
are we enough for each other or are we going to hunger and thirst
won't we question us all the time or will we completely count on our trust?
Won't we crumble and stumble in the dark caves and stormy waves
will we stick together even when karma turns us to slaves?
must we wait for the saddened birds to sing their songs
can't our hearts sing in appreciation of finding where they belong?
won't we keep dreaming of finding a better place to live in
if we can't make a better place of the historical cities within?
will we forgive each other when we make mistakes
won't our humanity and faults determine the long this takes?
why wait for the joys to write poetry and stories of romance
can't we pen every dance, delightful or sad by any chance
Can't we do everything it takes to be closer than this
shall wishes be our embrace and virtually flying forever our kiss?
will we be able to endure the long while we only have us at Heart
until it's no longer like that, until we cease to be oceans apart?
can we always press restart when we pause and when we hurt
won't we fail to pick up, and at the first fall this love might depart?
must we wait till we have enough cash to own mansions and yacht
can't we find content in the little,in starting together from scratch?
will we hike up the hill together, toil and sweat for the fruits
shall another remain down the foot and look on as one perspires?
will we extinguish our flames or just embrace the burning desires
shall we seal the cracks,won't we look on whilst
they tear further into canyons and consequently mute the lutes?
must we wait for the mango of our attraction to ripen
shouldn't we peel the bitter Exocarp and with salt eat the endocarp raw?
can't we make the best of the opportunities that are open
instead of looking on at the flowers of us waiting for them to grow?
must we wait to follow in the footprints of tales of true love
can't we just pave a way to a new plot ,one we deserve?
must we painfully wait for the engagement ring to decide
shouldn't we be jumping onto the motorboat of life and enjoying the ride?

He has sunken,
He is flat!
(He may just be
A bit more fat.)

He may have
Knees of Plasticine
And self-pity like
An entire emo scene...

But this is a new year!
(In mid-May?)
This is when we
Stop the decay.

Let us end
The discontent:
Let us make
Jhonhary great again.

"How do I do it?"
I hear him ask.
Well, here are the steps
To accomplish said task.

One:
Go outside and run
As if first dates were after you.
Go outside and run each day.
You have to.

Two:
Speak a little slower!
You're not a motorboat.
You sound like your tongue
Is wearing a peacoat.

Three:
Shave those sickly
****** hairs away.
You look as appealing as
A plumber's derriere.

Quatro:
Perfecta tu
Francés y español.
Aveces te escuchas
Como muerto caracol.

Five:
Just... chill
With the self-pity.
No manic pixie dream girl
Will come sing you a ditty.

Six:
Learn to play that song
You're just letting stall.
Don't be that guy
That just plays "Wonderwall."

Seven:
Keep buying clothes!
Yes, you look great.
No, don't be alarmed by
Your wallet's lowered weight.

Eight:
Come up with
More steps!
Make fewer jokes that
Leave people perplexed.

Nine:
Keep writing.
This is something you enjoy.
This is where your thoughts can
Come and not be destroyed.

Ten:
Just be you.
Be that well-meaning, uneven guy
Who wants to brighten
Another person's sky.

Eleven:
Make this your
Open-ended answer,
The last step you're
Always going after.

Write these last lines
As you begin your amends.
Make this the poem
That never really ends.

I miss
Your crazy hair ( It fits you perfectly)
Your intoxicating eyes (I want to get lost in them)
Your beautiful smile (Especially the evil one)
Your cute nose ( I want to kiss it)
Your amazing mouth (mmmmm)
Your sensitive neck ( I can't wait to kiss it from behind)
Your **** shoulders ( I want to caress them slowly)
Your  toned arms ( I want you to wrap them around me)
Your smooth hands (I want them all over my body)
Your perfect ******* ( I want to lick, **** and motorboat them)
Your  toned back ( I want to rub it slowly)
Your yummy tummy ( I can't wait to kiss it on my way to ...)
Your swollen **** (I want to lap and **** it)
Your wet ***** ( I long to kiss, lick, finger and **** it)
Your incredible *** ( I want to bite it and slap it)
Your phenomenal legs ( I can't wait to spread them and have you wrap them around me)
Your adorable feet ( I want to massage them for you)
Your tiny toes ( I can't wait to paint your toenails again)
I miss your body, your mind and your spirit ( I want to be one with you) 22

Well you destroyed me,
Ripped the happiness away, shredding my skin into scars as I fall.
I trusted too much and now it's all my fault,
How could I ever hate the one that saved me, even if it was momentary.

You took a poets words away,
And stole my confidence.
So now I'll float through the night sitting on some drug fuelled motorboat,
Trying desperately to escape the iceburgs.

But the water is cold and inviting,
So let me be self destructive as the captain tries his best to fight me.
You've left me in the dust and I couldn't hate myself more.

Once upon a time there was an
uninhabited and abandoned island.
And a man ended up there as his journey was very unplanned.
Water was spread in every direction as far as eyes could see.
There was nothing but few insects and a tall coconut tree.
He wasn't there alone, he was accompanied by few friends.
Enthusiasm, Determination, Patience and Hope all were holding his hands.



The first 2 or 3 days were more like a picnic and everyone enjoyed.
Enthusiasm was very excited and made everyone look rejoiced.
But as the days passed by, he looked dull and weak.
He was the first one who couldn't even stand a week.
Losing Enthusiasm the man looked irksome.
Other friends tried soothing him while he was sitting numb.



It's not that easy to withstand such a harsh environment.
Nothing much to do and there's no source of merriment.
Then the day came when Mr. Patience lost his cool.
He also left the man there because a bad workman always blame his tool.
Losing Patience, the man became cranky and he freaked out.
Running away from the shore and into the woods he would shout.



Few days later Determination had something to say.
The man knew already so all he could do was just to sit and pray.
Determination brushed passed him while he was leaving.
Now the man just used to lay on sand & stare at the blue ceiling.
The man & his Hope would lie down in the Sun.
Difference between day & night! He could barely discern.



Though almost all of his friends left but Hope stayed by his side.
They still were holding hands facing high and even low tide.
But there's a limit of any person's strength and endurance.
How can a person stay alive when he had already lost his Patience?
He was watching his Hope and himself dying.
At night, under that coconut tree, both of them were lying.



When he couldn't even open his eyes and the sight of stars was unclear,
Hope came crawling near him and whispered something into his ear.
Gathering all the power he had, he saw with his blurry sight.
Out of nowhere, a motorboat was approaching, in that hour of plight.
Just because of Hope he survived in that dreadful domain.
Having Hope by his side, all those friends that were lost, he would regain.

i need a distraction
something to be heard
above the perpetual
electric buzzing,
human eclectic
humming,
cognitive corrective numbing
is my mind running
straight, or am i becoming
a paradox?

how many distractions
can possibly fit in
before i finally
get enough
to distract
from all the distractions
i never asked for?
millions of distractions
(from who knows what place)
but i think
i think i need to make the space
for just one more
to add the the show
because i really just don’t know,

i don’t know what to say
when asked
about the weather.

i need a distraction
but please
don’t give me something
that tries to be heard
by screaming
a half-pitch higher
than all the other screaming screamers
because i spent years holding
my breath
when my mom
drove over bridges,
my dog never stopped barking
when you yelled and
as many times as i’ve tried
i’ve never been able to write my name
with a sharpie
on my frayed black leggings
in the dark
so i know nothing works that way.

distract me
(yes)
but do it with a whisper.

because i agree,
it really is,
it’s a kicker
that the sunshine fits her
so well
but won’t fit us.

but it would never fit you or i
that’s not who we are.
(we’re just people that cry
when we look at the stars,
just some kids with souls
that hold black holes
and whisper lies
in the dark)

but we’ve still got a chance.
our dark could defy
what her sunshine denies…

but i guess it must make me sick to think about
because it is exactly why
i need a distraction

because i’m always thinking
so i’m always sick

because there’s a black hole just
of thought
inside my tummy
and it hurts sometimes
because if i look inside
myself
I’ll be ****** straight in
and all i’ll hear
is the numbing din

because my brain
won’t stop growing fuzz

because it is all mossy mountains
and nebulous fog
when all i want
is a big flat lake
and a clear open sky
but in the wake
of this motorboat mind
i guess that’s kind of
hard to find

so please
until i do find
something of that kind
i need a distraction

and though i might not be willing
to get lost in my own brain jungle
i’ll get lost in you
any day.

distract me.

I met a crone who was a wife to the ****** horseman Mike Tucker,
when she lived in a ***** bunker as a ***** ***** den ****-******.

money doesn't grow on trees,
but it's also not
imbedded in gold...
   words mean nothing,
apparently, lately,
              until social media
came along...
then it was all about:
hey! monopoly that *****!
       even i find it hard to
father the / gather the idea...
from a gold standard to a
verbal standard...
                so freedom of
speech is akin to a
      philosopher's stone?
looks like it...
          keep the guitars in
rhythm...
    stop *******....
turn to solos in harmonica
format...
      i can't stop laughing...
i know there's a serious point
to be made...
  akin to my communist party
grandfather buying me cigarettes...
because i'm a cheap'oh
for reasons conceived by
american billionaires...
     excuses... excuses?!
  i call that an empty glass...
and the whole atheistic:
passing on my genese
as a sight of eternity:
    well, less than any if any
talk of carpe diem...
        the day's gone,
  seize some other point
of interest,
like brewing your own wine;
any doctor would call these people:
em... bow-whing?
             would i eat & drink with
them? probably not...
they say: i only have respect for
people i can eat & drink with...
   as an honourable case:
               i don't eat with people
i'd love to punch...
   and i don't drink with people
i'd love to talk with,
     in either case: because i can't...
i have no respect for such types...
i'd rather look into a dog's eyes
and feed it frankfurters...
   and look into those eyes,
and say: now i wish i didn't
have a coccyx, but a tail...
   acrobatics on those trees...
**** me... i'd be gymnastic-jane,
        swinging upside-down
while imitating a harmonica
    fiddling with my index finger
against the blurry action of the lips
doing the vibration akin to a motorboat...
up & down,
            up & down....
       you get the picture.
what puts me off atheism?
   the atheists themselves...
   they're just too ****** angry...
         or too fake calm...
                     sure, calm in academia,
but on the street, lay? angry
  like a tasmanian devil...
                 evidently i can't trust
academic atheism with its calm,
given the end product is so ******* angry...
and also apologetic;
    you can't justify the original stance
       by then allowing yourself an apology;
n'est-ce pas (né cé pá)?
i'm just wondering,
when will this atheistic vogue end?
   theology and fashion,
currently,
   the trend is black on black...
     perhaps a white dog-collar
                         in the mourning gowns.

Even as an old curmudgeon, aye pucker
and raspily suction, albeit toothless mouth
drawing reminiscent guffaws affecting
(think feeble attempt
impersonating plumber plunging -
unclogging backed up toilet),
flushed with satisfaction,
now snakes into following non sequitur,
whereby then upperclassman,
whose name Scott Lambert

I suddenly remembered
modest fellow one year my senior  
- donned tee shirt
“please support your local ******”
yes folks back in the day,
one long haired pencil neck geek
palled around with another
hirsute nerd - Roger Kummerer,
(who both of us graduated Methacton
High School class of 1977),

and yours truly readily
admitting, alluding, and attesting
without shadow of doubt
representing the dumber
than rocks of said rolling stones
foo fighting beastie boys
allied with Smokey and the bandits,
the latter donning outsize
particolored grey pachyderm trunks,
Tuscaloosa so far away;

especially as Mummer doth strut
on unseasonably warm New Year's Day
sporting polar bear look-alike
gabardine garb getup trumpeting,
merrily squeezing Charmin
rubbing her/his tuchus
excellently exhibiting posterior
as chief motormouth sound
of combo motorboat hummer.

Mein kampf elapsed distressfully
even now scores of decades later
ah..., the joys of amazingly aging gracefully
recalling happily never
being beat into pulp daily courtesy
imagine dragons saving me hide  
'though dimming sense and sensibility
before (appearing gratefully dead)
lifeless body dumped into gully,
nevertheless all the while fully
maintaining consciousness, and forcefully
summoning forth latent powers gleefully
choking living daylights masterfully

delivering just desserts upon Tom Viglione,
whose plaintive laments truthfully
resonate as blessed music
to ears unaccustomed hearing pitifully
sounding long overdue comeuppance
forever disbelieving wrongfully
perpetrated intimidating injustice
witnessed courtesy mine doppelgänger,
who wanted to strangle  
the m*r f*rs yearningly
fueling an ordinarily meek lad
only in his dreams, he envisions zestfully.

Pugnacious thuggish hooligans... although
decades long since elapsed,
whereby muscle bound hoodlums
jockeyed to rain
one after another verbal Hawaiian punch,
and bandied fist viz physical blow
threatening introverted diminutive boy
who, no surprise did eventually,
albeit (shamefacedly, sneakingly,
and stuntedly) didst grow

(as an aside resembled anorexic
Kris Kringle **... **... **...),
which long sleeved Santa suit
rendered invisible liver spots;      
said epidermal splotches black and indigo
wracked (in my pinion), impacted, and affected...,
this punster, he haint Joe
King, but upholds true value
nudging anonymous reader to chuckle
thru contrived written words y'know

good humor less or mo'
yours truly aspires toward po'
whit tree linkedin with infusing,
feebly, lamely, and quirkily
(no matter recognizing ex post facto)
impossible mission reporting punks to principal,
hence describing, envisioning, forsaking passivity
as defensive modus operandi status quo
finally freeing mine unsung
inner foreigner juke box hero.

Obama Soetoro you have trespassed upon my love
   Like a magical half-***** sent from Heavens above
   It's a mad incantation that delivers wines from waters
   The lovely Michelle and 2 quarter-white daughters
   When you swim your feet are like motorboat propellers
   Because you were selected by a mighty
      cabal of  New World Rockefellers
   I saw you on the White House lawn in the big, green helicopter
   As  happy as a man taking a male-enhancement shop tour
   I know that your late mother would not tolerate a fib, son
   For you are as honest as was pretty
      the once-pretty Debbie Gibson
   Your love goes either way and is loving and decent
   Recognizing not the mores of a Moslem's Faith,
      the Holy Koran or anything religiously recent

The man remembered

He had been a popular TV entertainer, written a book
and sang his songs we could all understand.
He was tall, looked heroic, sort old Vikings we hoped
they had looked like.
but most of all he had a left-behinds song called
“Amanda”
Which was about a motorboat but had to come
to symbolize the suffering womanhood of the world.
He set out to find the song up a mountain of bad
the poetry he climbed, through a plateau of forgotten
Musicals, across a lake of a petrified sea- shanties
And rhyming verses,
He found Emma in s grotto, in a globe of shiny
Diamonds, the immortal words a honeyed song
of a motorboat.

Even as old (dish) married
(spooning) curmudgeon,
who receives social security disability
linkedin with social anxiety)
chose the fork less traveled
aye pucker with sunken cheeks,
(especially without dentures)
and raspily suction toothless mouth
drawing reminiscent guffaws affecting
attempt impersonating plumber

(think unclogging toilet)
please support your local ******
back in the day one
long haired pencil neck geeks palled
around with another
hirsute nerd - Roger Kummerer,
(who both of us graduated Methacton
High School class of 1977),
and yours truly readily
admitting, alluding, and attesting

without shadow of doubt
representing the dumber
than rocks of said beastie boys
bandits, donning particolored pachyderm
gabardine garb getup trumpeting,
especially as Mummer
on each New Year's Day
with bare *** tuchus
excellently imitating courtesy said orifice
(as chief motormouth) sound
of combo motorboat hummer.

Ah... the joys of amazingly aging gracefully
happily recalling never being
beat into ****** pulp dully
imagining dimming sense and sensibility
before (appearing gratefully dead)
lifeless body dumped into gully
nonetheless all the while fully
maintaining conscious, and forcefully
summoning forth latent powers gleefully
choking living daylights masterfully

delivering just desserts upon Tom Viglione,
whose plaintive laments truthfully
resonate as blessed music
to ears unaccustomed hearing pitifully
sounding long overdue comeuppance
forever disbelieving wrongfully
perpetrated injustice
witnessed impossible mission
fueling an ordinarily meek lad
only in his dreams, he envisions zestfully.

Pugnacious thuggish hooligans... although
decades long since elapsed, whereby hoodlums
jockeyed to rain one after another verbal blow
threatening introverted diminutive boy
who, no surprise did eventually,
albeit (stuntedly) grow
(as an aside resembled anorexic
Santa Claus **... **... **...)
still wracked, impacted, affected...,
this punster, he haint Joe
King, but upholds valuable humor less or mo'
feebly, lamely, and quirkily aspires toward po'
whit tree linkedin with infusing,
(no matter ex post facto)
freeing mine unsung hero.